Guilt
by cKyodhUr
Summary: Mycroft Holmes wants one thing, to protect his family. In that, he has failed. Explore the aftermath of a man just trying to keep it together.


_Hello all! I warn you now this is not for the faint of heart. It is sad and tragic. Sometimes we need a little tragedy to remind us of what we have. I haven't written fanfiction in a while so please be kind. Reviews are always welcome and I greatly appreciate those of you who do. Thank you!_

 **Standard Disclaimer:** I don't own Sherlock obviously as it is the property of the wonderful Moffat and Gatiss who based their series on the work of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

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Mycroft Holmes was not always the hard man that he is today. The Iceman was forged over time, through struggle, and by necessity. A brother he loves so dearly, nearly lost to him because of a sister he could never truly understand. It was his responsibility, to look after them both. In that regard, he failed miserably. Helpless to protect Sherlock from their sister's madness and unable to save his sister from herself.

It wasn't an unusual occurrence. He would often come home from work or the Diogenes and ponder the events of his life. How had he made it to such a place, despised by every family member he had? He was under no such illusions that he was a good man, that he was certainly not. He also knew his moniker was equally false.

He was never made of ice. Ice broke when handled. Mycroft Holmes could never afford to break. He had a family to safeguard, even if they couldn't always see it. Working in the shadows had become his life, he had long ago forgone the notion of notoriety. Instead he chose power in all its seductive glory. He could have used it for his own ends but instead he secured a nation, watched over his parents, and tried desperately to prevent his siblings' self-destruction. A burden he bored silently.

Sherrinford changed everything. Eurus remains detained indefinitely unfortunately, lost further in her own intricate, treacherous, spider-web like mind. Her homicidal tendencies it seems cannot be cured even with the best intentions. Sherlock handled the situation with a strength of character that made him so very proud. His baby brother is finally on his way, with the help of Dr. Watson and associates, to being the man that Mycroft had always knew he was capable of being. His parents reacted to the news of what happened much like expected. There was anger and disappointment. More than that, sadness loomed over the them. The knowledge of the lies, their imprisoned child, no more illusion that everything would be alright.

Relationships were shattered after the incident at Sherrinford. Mummy felt deceived, and couldn't even face her eldest son anymore. How could he have done something like that? Keeping their youngest child, their only daughter away from them. Dad felt ashamed at his behavior, how he had given up. Accused of not caring for his sister, leaving her to rot in a cell without a thought, Mycroft remained silent, taking their anger and abuses. They have a right to be livid. He did deceive them and that is how it was left. Mycroft has yet to hear from his parents.

Sherlock was the piece of the puzzle that Mycroft didn't understand, not fully anyway. Eurus viewed him as her jailer. That wasn't untrue. Her feelings of animosity toward him for that and his protection of Sherlock from her meant that they would likely never have a positive relationship again. He accepted that. Sherlock was different though. His brother he cared for more than anything. Sherlock had yet to come to terms with what happened at Sherrinford. He sympathizes with Eurus' plight. He desperately wants her to be well, to fix her. To his credit, he attempts to do it himself. Communicating via violin. Upset with Mycroft for Eurus' condition and the usual brotherly dislike, Sherlock and he weren't speaking at the moment. That was entirely unusual but something about this felt different, like it wasn't fixable.

That is how he ended up sitting in his armchair in his study, a glass of whiskey in the right hand and his left pinching the bridge of his nose. He drove his family apart, the family he had sworn to protect at the age of seven. His decisions shook their very foundations. Mummy called him limited. She was oh so very right, no matter how greatly it pained him.

Mycroft was no longer invited to the family home, Sherlock avoided him. He never made another visit to Sherrinford to see Eurus. Mycroft was completely removed from his family, so he worked. If any of his family had bothered to look in on Mycroft, if they had decided to look past their anger, they would have seen a man struggling. The weight of the world is a heavy burden no one man can carry no matter how hard he tries and tried he did. He ran himself ragged. The more he worked the more he could forget about his situation. He continued to watch over his family from afar, ensuring they were safe and happy.

Mummy and Dad visited Eurus, determined to make her better. Sherlock visited as well. Her situation improved marginally. They did become closer though without their eldest around. Mycroft could at least be comforted by that. He went through the motions day in and day out.

One day hit him like a ton of bricks. The sudden contraction in his chest alerted him to the situation. Difficulty breathing. Dizziness. Pain. All went dark. Occasionally waking up to the flash of hospital lights and sounds of medical personnel. Until he didn't wake.

John Watson was following up with a patient from the surgery when he spotted Mycroft being worked over by the medical staff. He saw the code called. The revival attempts. The flat line. In a matter of moments Mycroft Holmes was no more and John was in a state of shock. He frantically texted Sherlock.

' _ **Come**_ _ **now. Bart's. URGENT. Mycroft. -JW'**_

Sherlock was surprised by John's text. Mycroft had not been on the forefront of the consulting detective's mind as of late. At first, he was shocked to see Mycroft back off but now it was expected. What could his brother possibly want? With haste, Sherlock departed for the hospital. When he arrived, he did not need to be told why he was here. Mycroft must be injured he deduced. Anthea was making her way to a hospital room. John bore a pained and sympathetic look on his face not usually reserved for Mycroft.

"How had my brother managed to injure himself this time? Finally put himself in a diabetic coma from all the cake he has been eating." The statement was made in jest and lacked malice but the look on John's face made it clear that it was more than a bit not good.

"He's dead, Sherlock. He had a heart attack and was rushed here." John was pained in his simple yet accurate explanation. Nothing made sense to Sherlock in that moment. While Mycroft may not have been at the front of his mind Sherlock just never imagined a world without him. Mycroft couldn't die. He was Mycroft. He was destined to outlive them all and then gloat about it when he finally departed this earth. This was not how it was meant to go. He wasn't supposed to die with the hostility between them. He died an outcast in his own family. His brother was many things but he was still his brother. For the first time in his life, Sherlock felt the most unimaginable guilt.

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 _Thank you for reading!_


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